Winter in the Woods
O
UT IN the clean cold whiteness
Of a snow-clad winter wood,
One sees and feels and hears there
Things beautiful and good:
The brittle forked bough snapping,
The ring of an axe on oak,
An old wood wagon creaking
In each protesting spoke,
A crow’s wide wheel—his cawing
Sharp when the air is still,
That echoes and re-echoes
From distant hill to hill;
The hint of a far spring freshet,
And close by a twisted root
A clump of moss appearing,
And a jack-in-the-pulpit shoot,
Sharp as a pen point writing
Spring in a lettered word . . .
Oh, the things in the woods of winter
That I have seen and heard!
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